Page 23 of Dear John

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far. Do you know how many people buy keto bread?”

“That’s true. And fake tortillas.”

We were distracting ourselves as much as possible, but the tension rising between us was palpable.

Riley linked her arm with mine, which was completely unheard of. She was the last person in the world who would ever willingly act like a girlfriend with any woman, even me. And frankly, I felt the same way. Touching was not necessary.

“So, we’re going to walk through the grocery store like two normal people who weren’t recently almost killed by your crazy husband?—”

“Soon to be ex-husband,” I corrected.

“—and we’ll buy what we need, along with lots of wine, chocolate, and chips.”

We both looked at each other and grinned. “And Jujyfruits.”

I kept walking, feeling slightly less tense with every step I took. I could do this. I could totally go grocery shopping and behave like a normal person.

“Does it feel awkward?”

“Like people are staring at us?” Riley asked, her back just as stiff as mine.

“And they all know what happened and are waiting to see when the next thing will go down?”

“Like maybe the Unabomber will walk through the doors and strap us to a bomb. That seems like the logical next step in our story.”

“And maybe a pack of rabid wolves will attack as soon as we step outside.” We turned the aisle and I felt another shiver race down my spine. I spun around, glaring at…nobody. There wasn’t a single soul in the aisle, but I could have sworn someone was there, watching and waiting to make their move.

“I felt it, too,” Riley whispered.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Because somewhere in this store, there’s a psycho just waiting to kill us.”

“Then why are we still here?” I asked, wholeheartedly agreeing with her statement.

“Because if we walk out that door right now, we have to deal with the fact that he might follow us and murder us in cold blood right outside the grocery store, and that is not where I choose to be slaughtered.”

I stopped, quirking an eyebrow at her. “I’ve always wondered about that phrase. “Can you be murdered in warm blood?”

“It’s referencing the fact that little feeling was involved.”

“Right, but it’s murder,” I said thoughtfully. “Are there different levels of murder? Like, can someone murder you gently? And if there are different levels, who decides what category you fall into?”

“Allow me to be of service,” a familiar voice said, popping out and scaring the shit out of me.

“Fox!” I shouted, spinning around and punching him in the face.

He turned with the hit, shocked that I had actually put my hands on him. He rubbed his jaw, a wounded expression marring his face. “Geez, I just came to say hi.”

“You scared the shit out of me!” I shouted, not caring that I was drawing attention. “Don’t you know you can’t sneak up on people like that?”

“I didn’t intend to, but you started a very interesting conversation, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

I pressed my hand to my racing heart, noting that Riley was doing the same. Thankfully, it wasn’t just me who was scared. I was just the only one who had sucker-punched a friend.

“What?” I asked, finally getting back to his statement.

“Oh, the whole good versus bad murder scenario. It’s a very interesting debate. And the answer is yes, there can be good murder and then very, very bad murder. I would know. It’s sort of my wheelhouse,” he grinned. “Although, the Kamau could definitely give you a better range of scenarios than I could. This is what he does.”

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